B for Baker Street
by Riandra
Summary: Jumping on the 221B bandwagon, suggestions welcome! Chapter 29: Beneficial.
1. Bruja

(This drabble was born after reading Neil Gaiman's 'A Study in Emerald' – I couldn't help wondering what 'The Hound of the Baskervilles' would have been like if the Baskerville legend had actually been true... Note: _Bruja_ is Spanish for 'sorceress'.)

* * *

_...Fire burst from its open mouth, its eyes glowed with a smouldering glare, its muzzle and hackles and dewlap were outlined in flickering flame..._

Watson looked up from the latest Strand with a shiver. "Honestly, Holmes... I still have my doubts as to your phosphorous theory."

Holmes arched a sardonic eyebrow. "You have a sound alternative?"

"Well, not as such, but... Holmes, you know as well as I that the real case had far too many loose ends! Why didn't the Hound savage Sir Henry as it did the others? Sir Charles, Selden... Mrs. Stapleton..." Watson shuddered at the memory. "Moreover, if it _was_ an ordinary dog, why didn't any of our shots seem to hit it? And don't tell me the fog threw off all of our aims again!"

Holmes frowned obstinately, but Watson wasn't having any of it.

"Holmes," he sighed, "we've both learned firsthand over the years that _anything_ is possible. Why are you so averse to the idea that we might have encountered the supernatural on this case?"

Holmes's hands tightened on the arms of his chair. "Because the only theory that fits all the facts, Watson," he whispered, "I find too dreadful even to contemplate..."

That only Sir Henry's good heart had saved him from the ambitions of Beryl Garcia, Stapleton's devoted wife, and practising _bruja_...


	2. Bounce

(Inspired by 'Too Much Of A Good Thing' by gabrielsangel79. Set in the SH22 universe.)

* * *

"Holmes, what the _zed?_ Why are you using my living room furniture for an obstacle course at... two in the morning?!"

"I would have thought it perfectly obvious, Lestrade..."

"Come on, Holmes, I have to go to work in six hours! Why don't you just go for a walk or something?"

"I already have, twice; and before you ask, yes, I have been to the all night gym as well."

"And?"

"They asked me to leave when I broke their treadmill. Now will you _kindly_ tell Watson to give me a sedative?"

"No way, mister! You did this to yourself, so now you'll just have to wait for it to wear off, like everybody else."

"Need I remind you that my metabolism is considerably different to most people's?"

"Yeah, well, _most_ people aren't stupid enough to drink three energy drinks in an hour without reading the warnings on the label! Honestly, Sherlock, I'm amazed you didn't put yourself in hospital. Next time, try going to bed at a decent hour during a case, instead of spending all night on the 'net!"

Beth shook her head, resisting the strong urge to put him out of her misery with a blaster, and stomped back off to bed. She didn't have enough patience or energy of her own right now even to watch him bounce.


	3. Butterfly

Watson smiled reassuringly at the distressed couple, while Holmes rubbed his chin thoughtfully, expression unreadable as ever.

"And the servants heard nothing unusual?"

The husband patted his trembling wife's hand stiffly. "No, nothing. The maid had just looked in on the children, about twenty minutes earlier."

"Why so?"

"The children's na... er, our dog, Nana," the man explained, face turning pink. "She was barking furiously and couldn't be quieted. Liza took her upstairs to reassure her, before chaining her up in the garden."

Holmes's eyes narrowed. "At what time?"

"Around eight o'clock. My wife and I were attending a Christmas party. We only knew anything was wrong when Nana arrived at the door; she'd broken her chain."

"Dog had more sense than its masters," Watson murmured, low enough that only Holmes could hear.

The detective shot him a warning glance. "Pray continue, Mr. Darling," he said smoothly. "Why have you refrained from notifying Scotland Yard?"

Mr. Darling's face grew redder still, exchanging an uncomfortable look with his wife. "Because, Mr. Holmes, we feared the police would either believe us mad, or guilty of the... the abduction ourselves." He took a piece of notepaper from his pocket and unfolded it.

Watson's breath caught. Across the paper meandered a trail of inky footprints, human shaped, but as tiny and delicate as a butterfly's...

* * *

A/N: Was trying to work out when in Holmes's career this might have happened. It must have been quite late, since stuffed animals, like Michael's teddy bear, were only available in shops from 1902 onwards.


	4. Bells

Watson sighed, closing the sitting room door. "Holmes, why didn't you take the case?" Those poor parents... "It wouldn't have hurt to visit the scene of the crime, at least."

"And what crime might that be?" Holmes countered wearily. "Abduction by persons unknown – since one kidnapper could hardly have spirited three children away unaided – and at least one of whom would seem to have the gift of flight!" He snorted, sinking further into his armchair. "Or perhaps you can explain why there were no signs of forced entry? Footprints only on the windowsill, indeed!"

Watson frowned, looking back over his notes: the nursery's bureau drawers turned out; a needle and spool of thread on the daughter's bed; the youngest son's stuffed bear missing, besides the eldest son's umbrella and top hat...

And these footprints... so perfect, no sign of nib marks on the paper, as one would expect if they had been drawn...

"Perhaps your current fantastic theory?" Holmes's sardonic voice cut through Watson's thoughts. "My dear Watson, I can tolerate most of your romantic nonsense, but I draw the line at believing in... in _fairies_!" He rose abruptly and stalked out of the room, but Watson barely noticed him go. His ears had pricked at the sound of a faint, tinkling gasp above his head, almost sounding like tiny bells...

* * *

A/N: Don't panic, still one more 'B' to go for this thread! =)


	5. Beckoning

Watson rose hastily, gaze sweeping the mantelpiece. There, behind the jack-knife, a faint glow, almost like that of a firefly... Drawing closer, his eyes widened – that was no mere insect lying on Holmes's mail! Unless he were dreaming, what he beheld was an actual _fairy_... and dreadfully ill, if her fading light was any indication.

Hesitant to manhandle the fragile creature, Watson carefully removed the topmost envelope, lowering it to the hearthrug. Through Holmes's magnifying glass, he could see that the poor thing was barely breathing. What could he do? No use asking himself what Holmes would do, he'd already made _his_ position... clear...

Combining his own instincts with Holmes's training, Watson murmured, "_I _believe in fairies." The fairy's wings fluttered, hands seeming to clasp feebly, then again, eyes pleading. Praying he'd understood, Watson began clapping...

* * *

Returning a minute later, Holmes gaped at the impossible sight of Watson suspended in mid-air, beaming... and what the devil was that... _thing _circling his head?!

"I think we're needed, old man." Watson floated lower and grasped Holmes's shoulder as the... fairy? threw a cloud of shimmering dust in his face, making him sneeze. "Coming?"

Despite any misgivings, Holmes's heart leapt at the prospect of another adventure with his dearest friend; next moment, he also found himself rising off the floor, the open window beckoning...


	6. Broken

Mrs. Hudson gave her squirming patient a look of stern warning, who finally submitted, slumping wearily into the kitchen chair. Witch hazel was her usual remedy for bruises, but the best treatment for a blackened eye was cold compresses, as Dr. Watson would surely agree... were he here to give his opinion.

The landlady sighed. Still shaken herself from her lodger's reappearance, she could well imagine that Dr. Watson had also been less than overjoyed at discovering that his best friend had kept him in the dark all this time. Judging by Mr. Holmes's dismayed expression, however – what she could see of it beneath the wet pad – he had failed to predict the good doctor's precise reaction to the news.

"...I don't understand..." The bewildered murmur broke her heart as much as it filled her with exasperation. "I told him why I had to..."

She was about to reply, when both were startled by a knock at the back door.

"Lestrade," the detective sighed, waving her away. "Tell him everything will be in place for tonight."

But the man smiling shyly when she opened the door was a far more welcome sight, glancing nervously past her towards the kitchen. She nodded, breathing a silent prayer of thankfulness as he entered – some things could be bruised, it seemed, but never wholly broken.


	7. Breakfast

Watson was mildly surprised when he came downstairs to find Holmes already at the breakfast table, that morning's Times in front of him.

NIGHTMARE ON FLEET STREET AT AN END, the headlines proclaimed.

SLASHER BARBER FOUND BY POLICE, MURDERED IN BAKEHOUSE CELLAR WITH VICTIMS

TWO LAW OFFICIALS ADDED TO DEATH TOLL

BAKEHOUSE PROPRIETRESS MISSING, WANTED FOR QUESTIONING

"So it _was_ the barber," Watson murmured, rescuing one corner of the paper from the marmalade. "Your suspicions about Todd were correct, then, Holmes," he said aloud.

The detective smiled grimly as he poured his coffee. "That amazes you?"

Watson sat down himself, folding the Times back up and gesturing pointedly at Holmes's empty plate. "No, although I am somewhat surprised that Lestrade didn't consult you on the matter at all."

Holmes waved a dismissive hand. "Scotland Yard _is_ occasionally capable of seeing what is right under their noses. To own the truth, Watson..." and the doctor frowned in concern as the detective tried and failed to suppress a shudder, "from what Lestrade let slip on his way home last night, I find myself immensely thankful that neither of us were present during that raid."

Watson nodded gravely, turning his attention back to the spread before them. Any gruesome details from the case could wait until he'd had a chance to digest his breakfast.


	8. Bewilderment

Watson sank gratefully into the booth, sighing as he surveyed the mostly deserted pub. Not the worst establishment he'd ever celebrated in – he just wished he wasn't drinking alone...

"Pardon me..." Watson was startled to see a finely-dressed man in a green velvet coat standing before him, smiling hesitantly. "May I join you?"

"Please," Watson smiled back, looking his drinking companion over with mild interest as he sat down opposite. Aristocratic features, long windswept locks... 'Byronesque' would be an apt description. Ordinarily, Watson might have been curious about why an aristocrat was drowning his sorrows here – but right now, he was simply grateful for the company. "_Slàinte__._"

His companion blinked, then hastily lifted his own glass. "Yes, quite. I'm the Doctor, by the way," he added suddenly.

Watson's lips twitched. "So am I." The Doctor's head tilted, looking at him oddly. "Just finished training at Netley," Watson explained, "I ship out to India tomorrow."

The Doctor's eyes widened. "Were you at St. Bart's before that, by any chance?"

Watson chuckled. "That obvious, is it?"

"Only to a keen observer," his companion replied, sad-eyed smile becoming enigmatic. "But I'd best be off now," standing abruptly. "People to help, and all that – you know how it is."

"I expect I will..." Watson murmured to the Doctor's vanishing back, shaking his head in bewilderment.


	9. Boys

Watson tried not to glower as Holmes looked seriously at the ragged urchin in front of him. "Now, Oliver, do you understand how important it is that you are not identified? If Fagin realises that you are one of Wiggins's lot..."

"Don' worry, guv'nor," Wiggins piped up. "Ollie's run with us long enough ter know wot's wot."

Oliver grinned at the praise. "I'll be careful, sir... guv'nor," he corrected hastily.

Holmes nodded. "You remember what to do if Mr. Sikes returns?"

"Get caught stealing, ask for Inspector Lestrade."

"Good lad. Now, Wiggins..."

Watson saw the pair on their way, then returned to the sitting room in great indignation. "Really, Holmes! It's one thing to use the boys as spies, but sending _Oliver_ into that den of thieves... The lad is almost as green as when Wiggins found him!"

"And there lies his advantage. He's not been an Irregular long enough for the Dodger to know his face." Holmes sighed. "Watson, if I had any other recourse, I would take it, believe me."

"No doubt," Watson replied grimly. "I only hope you can reconcile that line of reasoning with your conscience later."

Holmes sniffed, refraining from pointing out what should have been obvious to his friend: he would be equally unable to forgive himself were misfortune to befall any of his boys...


	10. Be

_My first 221Bx5! Prompted by Aleine Skyfire._

* * *

Night has long since fallen over my beloved London, but the darkness is not the friend and ally it once was to me. Every shadow in the street below seems to my fevered imagination – I, the consummate logician! – to hold the most unspeakable horrors... which is no doubt due to _him_.

I dread his coming, shrink from it with every fibre of my being, yet I am determined that he shall not have the satisfaction of seeing me cower before him like the poor, mindless wretches he commands – I am no servant or slave of his, death would be infinitely preferable to such a fate.

Although the gas lamps do not flicker, the sitting room seems to grow steadily darker, the hair raising on the back of my neck... Still facing the window, I grip the sill bracingly and speak aloud, praying my voice will not quaver. "Pray take a seat, Moriarty. It is most fortunate that you find me at home this evening."

"Fortunate, indeed." The words are pleasant enough, but the dry, leathery voice makes me infinitely thankful for the comforting weight in my coat sleeve. "Although perhaps not entirely unexpected."

No footsteps sound, yet I suddenly sense his loathsome presence directly behind me. Dear God, give me strength! I shall not turn yet, I _shall not_! "I can spare you five minutes, Moriarty, if you have anything to say."

His soft chuckle makes my flesh crawl. "My dear Mr. Holmes, surely all that I have to say has already crossed your mind."

"Then possibly my answer has crossed yours." My pulse is thundering in my own ears, how loud must it be to him?

"You stand fast?" Every 's' is becoming more sibilant, and I cannot help thinking of Dr. Roylott's viper... but the terror I knew that dreadful night at Stoke Moran was of an earthly creature, and its kiss, although deadly, was no threat to one's immortal soul.

"Absolutely."

A faint rustle of movement has me releasing the sill and allowing Mrs. Hudson's rosary to fall into my hand, but to my immeasurable relief, my guest's voice next sounds beside the fireplace. "You must drop it, Mr. Holmes." The tone is repulsively condescending. "You really must, you know."

Thank heaven, at last I may turn, look upon my nemesis and he upon me for the first time since we became aware of each other, all those years ago. He stands erect before the leaping flames, taller and thinner even than I, his white, aquiline features still more hawklike in the shadows he almost seems to wrap around himself. His forehead is highly domed, as I would expect from one of his immense intellect; his sunken eyes are fixed upon me with equal curiosity, pointed white teeth showing in what I can only assume is a smile.

"Like so many before you, you thought to play your wits against mine – I, who have intrigued with the courts of Europe centuries before you were born. You should have kept your energies for use closer to home. Before long, you will know in full what it is to cross my path, should you continue on this course."

I force myself to stand straighter. "Danger is part of my trade."

"That is not danger, Mr. Holmes," he replies softly, thin red lips curling into a sneer. "It is inevitable destruction. You and all who think to baffle me are mere cattle – you must stand clear, or face the butcher's knife."

To my astonishment, fear is rapidly being overtaken by anger. All this time I have had the profoundest respect for a worthy opponent, yet it seems he has not held the same view of me, far from it... and that growing sense of ire gives me the last ounce of courage I have lacked. "Well, my dear Count, this has been a most pleasant conversation, but I fear I am now neglecting other business of greater importance."

He hisses in fury, demonic features contorted, eyes blazing hellfire... it is all I can do keep from flinching, yet he makes no other move. It seems his only purpose in coming here tonight was merely to warn me. Nevertheless, I grasp the string of beads in my hand a little tighter as I turn my back on him once again, unable to keep my gaze from flickering to where the enraged creature's reflection ought to be in the glass.

"You think you have frustrated me, detective," he snarls, "but my revenge is just begun! I spread it over centuries, and time is on my side. The ones that you love shall soon be mine, and through them you and others shall yet be mine – my creatures, to do my bidding and to be my jackals when I wish to feed!"

A frozen hand seems to clutch at my heart at his words, but I will not be drawn. He is bluffing, surely; everyone he could conceivably use against me has been sent away – even Watson, despite his dogged refusals, for his wife is now blessedly with child, and his family have far greater need of him than I.

I cannot keep from starting as his voice purrs once more at my shoulder. "Your effrontery is most amusing, little detective, but it will not save you in future. Should you attempt to bring destruction upon me, rest assured that I shall do as much to you."

I try not to shudder at the venom infusing every soft syllable, taking a deep breath. "You have paid me several compliments, my dear Count. Allow me to pay you one in return." And then I am whirling back around to face him, thrusting the rosary out in front of me... but my noble guest has departed as quickly as he arrived, and that cursed darkness with him, the sitting room as well lit as ever.

My legs fail me at last, and I fall into the chair at Watson's writing desk, putting shaking hands over my face. Thank God, it is over, and I am still alive. He will not return tonight, but there is precious little time to act before tomorrow evening – and it is horribly apparent that I have sorely underestimated the toll that confronting this monster would have upon me. My cursed arrogance, believing I could face him alone... but I am alone, and the tide of evil marches on inexorably – God help me! Yet like mad Canute, I will stand before it and order it to halt, for if I were assured of Count Moriarty's destruction, I would cheerfully accept my own.

So may it be.


	11. Brother-in-arms

_Holmes vs Dracula, part 2!_

* * *

I watch the late afternoon shadows in growing dread as they stretch ever longer, keeping pace with the sinking sun – even its very brightness seems to mock me. This last remaining day I have spent in desperate search for the Count's final resting place has been entirely in vain; and with barely an hour before sunset, I am left with only one recourse. Since I cannot go to Moriarty, I must therefore await his coming, for he surely knows that he shall never be rid of me while both of us draw breath. It is in God's hands now whether I shall live to see another dawn, as man or monster...

Deeper and deeper I plunge into the reeking maze of alleys and courts that is London's underworld. He will run me to ground all too soon, but every moment of delay is precious. At last, a tavern. Squalid hole that it is, it will serve as a brief respite, provided I do not linger too long. I am so very weary, though, and the chill in my bones seems to further sap my strength. Surely just a drop of ale could do no harm...

The darkness reaches to embrace me as I stagger back out into the alley. A faint golden glow lingers in the twilight sky, but it cannot find me here... I am lost among the shadows, one more nameless face in the night – hooray! No, no, quietly now, mustn't draw attention to myself... lot of dangerous folk in these parts, have to tread carefully... what was I doing again? Waiting for someone... Yes, that was it. Hope they show up soon, starting to get cold out here...

Without warning, I am seized from behind in a crushing embrace, arms like bands of iron holding me immobile, hot, fetid breath washing over my neck. "My dear Holmes," a hideously familiar voice tsks in my ear. "You disappoint me sorely. I had expected a far more satisfying hunt from such amusing prey."

"Well, I always aim t'give sat... satis... pleasure," I slur, then brighten. "C'ld always play ch'rades till 've sobered back up..."

His dry chuckle sounds almost regretful. "I think not. Much as I should relish your full appreciation of your demise, little detective, it would be most foolish of me to allow you the chance to regain your senses." The cold, razor-sharp point of a talon trails slowly up my neck. "It seems I shall simply have to content myself..." I gasp in pain and shock as the talon pierces my flesh like a needle of ice, and I can feel the warm, fresh blood trickling unchecked to my collar... I steel myself for what must surely follow... but there is nothing. Dear heaven, what new devilry is this? Does Moriarty seek to torment me further by drawing out this terrible moment to its fullest? Why does he not drink? Oh, dear God, could it be...?

A snarl of fury confirms my worst fears. God help me, he knows! In a heartbeat, I am slammed up against the nearest wall, held aloft by my still bleeding throat, claws digging in hard enough to break the skin afresh. "You_ dared_?!" he hisses, and the hellish rage that twists his features now makes our first confrontation seem as nothing. "You sought to rob me of my powers with the very filth that made you _half_ the enemy you could have been? Bah!" The pitiless grip steadily tightens as I struggle in vain to draw even one breath, clawing frantically to free myself... but the darkness is closing in again, crimson now with blood... and then a fearful shriek of agony stabs me to the heart and I am falling...

"Get back, monster!" A blessedly familiar voice rings out above me, clear and valiant as a church bell. "Be gone from this place! You shall not touch him again!"

I shudder at the creature's loathsome rasp, every word bristling with hate. "Very well, _Doctor_. Tonight is yours, but tomorrow night is mine! Guard yourselves well, for be assured I shall find you!"

"Holmes!" I cannot help flinching at the new touch on my neck – but these hands are also familiar, strong yet soothing, binding the wounds they find there with the greatest care. "Holmes, old man, can you hear me?"

I have just enough strength to nod slightly, eyelids fluttering open. "Watson..." The words are the merest whisper, abused throat in agony – I must have come within a hair's breadth of having my windpipe crushed. How in the world did Watson manage to find me, let alone in time?

"Don't speak, old fellow." Watson is doing his best to smile, but his eyes are strangely bright. "Let's get you somewhere safe."

I am lifted, Watson's arms cradling me as gently as if I were made of porcelain. My own eyes are beginning to grow moist – forgive me, my friend! You cannot regret my sending you away half as much as I... I have been so very blind. "Mary?"

"She and the boys are well protected, don't you worry."

"But Moriarty..."

"Has retreated for now – although he'll definitely be paying us a visit tomorrow night, once he's had a chance to heal." Watson smiles grimly. "If nothing else, I can't imagine his pride will stand the indignity of being garotted with a rosary."

I stare. "What?"

"You'd left it in the tavern, along with a certain other item..." Watson nods down at his bulging coat pocket, where my morocco case no doubt resides, expression stern. "Honestly, Holmes, drugging a vampire by injecting yourself with cocaine? You couldn't have had the least idea what effect that would have on him!"

"...no choice..." True, my plan to feign drunkenness had been a last resort, but it _had_ seemed possible that the drug could slow a vampire down enough to give a human a fighting chance. How could I have predicted that the Count's sense of smell would be so powerful?

"Well, perhaps it's time you returned to the more traditional methods." Watson turns through a wrought-iron gate and bears me across a cobbled yard towards an open doorway, where a robed figure stands silhouetted against the lamplight. "But before anything else, you need to rest – and you'll get no more questions answered till tomorrow, so save your breath."

But I have no need to ask anything else. This hallowed ground will keep ourselves and our kind host safe until morning; and the darkness shall hold no more terrors for me tonight, knowing even as I dream that I lie beneath the steady, watchful gaze of my brother-in-arms.

* * *

_Stay tuned for the final installment... and please review!_


	12. Better

_Holmes vs Dracula, part 3. _

* * *

"Holmes, get back to bed this instant! Are you _trying_ to kill yourself – again?"

I scowl mutely, conceding halfway by sitting down on top of the blankets. Perhaps my legs are still feeling a trifle unsteady, but what of it? Once Watson allows me real food, instead of the pap he tried to tempt me with earlier, I shall be perfectly all right again.

"And don't even think of asking our host for any tobacco, your throat's taken enough punishment already." As if I hadn't deduced earlier that Father Michael doesn't smoke.

Watson sits down beside me, then carefully reaches up to the wrappings on my neck, unwinding them slowly. Despite his care, I shudder at the contact, blushing crimson a moment later as I collect myself. "So, Doctor? What's the damage?" If only it were possible to croak nonchalantly.

"Well, I'm sorry to say... the prognosis is that you'll be raising my blood pressure for many more years." Watson's frown becomes an apologetic smile. "Although these claw marks are probably there to stay – I assume you can live with that?"

I nod emphatically – better to be clawed than bitten! – then try to remain still while Watson bandages me again. "That's assuming either of us... lives to see tomorrow..."

"Well, yes, there is that." Watson's hopeful look makes my heart ache. Poor fellow, he has so much to live for! And I can make him no promises, I never could... "Any ideas? Preferably something with half a chance of success, I'd just like to make that clear."

I open my mouth to answer in kind... only to close it again miserably, shoulders sagging. What is the use? Even if I had the least idea of where to find Moriarty, how could either of us hope to defeat such a powerful adversary, and in his own lair?

"Holmes..." I manage to meet Watson's eyes, the doctor's voice full of compassion. "I know you're afraid; I am, too... but we are going to get the bastard."

I am surprised into a huff of laughter, which is more like a sob than I care to admit. How can he have such faith in me, even now?

I only realise that I've spoken aloud when Watson answers. "Not you, old friend – both of us. Besides..." He grins sheepishly. "Mary would kill me if I came home without a pulse."

I find myself grinning back, albeit shakily. "...you hope..."

"Damned right," he chuckles affectionately. "And don't think for a minute she wouldn't do the same for you – you're her family, too, remember?"

I never would have imagined that such a macabre thought could make me feel better.

* * *

_Just a double 221B this time. It popped into my head while I was trying to write vampire!Reichenbach, which will hopefully cooperate for next episode..._


	13. Beads

_Holmes vs Dracula, pt 4. 221B x 3._

* * *

Camden House does not greatly distinguish itself from the other houses on Baker Street; its chief advantage is the excellent view it commands of my own sitting room window. Our quest has ironically brought us full circle, and taught me the true depths of my archenemy's cunning.

I stand hidden in the deep shadows of 216's area, flanked by Watson and the ragged urchin who finally tracked us down only an hour ago, gasping out his report of having followed a large bat through the streets and back alleys the night before, until at last it flapped its way clumsily through a broken lower window of this abandoned dwelling, not two doors along from our present hiding place. According to my sources, Moriarty's preferred form when travelling is a thin mist, all but undetectable even to those who know what to look for; I can only surmise that my nemesis was too badly hurt or distracted to think of doing so after his encounter with Watson. It will be his last mistake.

My chief concern is that, once again, time is growing perilously short - only twenty minutes remain before sunset. However, Baker Street seems all but deserted now, thank heaven, and I believe I may safely venture forth with my parting gift to the Count. I care nothing for my own arrest, of course, should it come to that, but Watson... the least breath of scandal attaching itself to my friend's good name is unacceptable to me, even now. Better that he remains on guard here, keeping our young friend from the worst danger.

With a final earnest warning, Watson boosts me up to shoulder height, allowing me to clamber easily over the railings and slip down the narrow path between the two houses. The rubbish-filled yard between the houses of this street and Blandford is overlooked by numerous dust-covered windows; I can only pray that none conceal inconvenient watchers...

And there it is: the back door of 220... Just as the boy said, the lower bedroom window has a gaping hole in the glass, little flakes of peeling paint lying beneath, freshly knocked from the ledge. My heart thuds painfully in my breast as the realisation crashes over me: _the creature __**is**__ here_. At long last, I have found him, and one way or another, the game will end tonight.

The back door is locked, of course, and I simply do not have time to waste in picking the lock. However, fortune favours the well-prepared. With hands that tremble despite my best efforts, I reach into my coat and delicately remove the jar of calcium oxide, hastily purchased from a nearby pharmacy, and my handkerchief. All I need now is water, provided by a drainage channel at my feet.

Gingerly, I tie the dripping handkerchief around the mouth of the jar and, breathing a silent prayer, hurl the vessel through the broken window at the far wall. The glass shatters on impact, water-heated quicklime immediately igniting the long ribbons of wallpaper hanging down, the entire wall engulfed by hungrily licking flames in a matter of seconds.

"_Fire!_" It may be counterproductive, but I have to give any unsuspecting residents of this area fair warning to get out while they can. I strongly doubt Moriarty will hear any warning shouts from his coffin until much too late...

The bedroom is now fully ablaze, the blistering heat starting to crack the window's remaining glass. I must return to Baker Street before the outer wall is consumed and prevents my escape.

But when I emerge back onto the street, Watson and the boy are gone from the area, there is no sign of them anywhere. Calmly now, no sense in panicking, perhaps Watson thought it best to take the boy across to the flat... then my eye is caught by something on the pavement, gleaming under a newly-lit gaslamp, which turns the blood to ice-water in my veins: a broken string of rosary beads.

* * *

A/N: Whew, and there was me thinking the adventure was coming to an end! Maybe next time... ;)

For those who can't be bothered using google, quicklime (calcium oxide) could easily be found at any well-stocked chemist. It isn't flammable itself, but when it comes into contact with water, it heats up to about 300F, so anything flammable it touches is going to go up like a torch. Victorian napalm, anyone?


	14. Back

(Taking a break from the Dracula thread - back next post! *fingers crossed*)

_Prompted by Aleine Skyfire: Beth comes down with a bad cold, Sherlock nurses her. Set just after the SH22 episode 'The Crime Machine'._

* * *

"Ohhh..."

"Easy, Lestrade, lie still."

"...Holmes? What... oh, _zed_, what time is it...?"

"Almost noon. Don't worry, I've notified Grayson. He called me when you didn't answer your commlink."

"Thanks... Didn't drag you away from any interesting cases, did I?"

"Not at all, I have only one client at the moment."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Indeed, one suicidally stubborn police inspector."

"Very funny... and how many times did Dr. Watson nag _you_ about looking after yourself?"

"At least I had the good sense to follow his... the droid's advice after our swim in the Thames yesterday."

"Okay, so I should've gone straight home to change! Just my luck to get sick while Watson's off getting waterproofed."

"...well... no doubt he'll be back tomorrow."

"Hey, c'mon, I didn't mean it like that. It's just..."

"I understand; he has been your colleague a good deal longer than I. Are you thirsty?"

"Mm, parched... Zed, _real_ orange juice? Holmes, did you go to the organic market?"

"Well, one can hardly get better on chemicals alone. Although you would think that with all these scientific advances, the common cold would have been completely eliminated by now."

"Yeah... Too bad the germs keep getting smarter along with the doctors."

"Mm, a pity one can't say the same for their patients."

"Remind me again why I brought you back?"


	15. Vampire Reichenbach

Holmes vs. Dracula, pt 5 - the climax!

(221B x 7)

I stare up at my sitting room window as I hasten across Baker Street, but can see very little through the glass's reflection of the burning house, save for the slight twitch of a curtain... and the sight fills me with such a chill that I barely feel the heat of the spreading inferno behind me. Count Moriarty has truly anticipated my every move, it seems... and now I must once more face him under my own roof!

The growing crowd before my front door does nothing to comfort me, suspicious murmurs and darting glances impressing on me all the more how truly _alone_ I am at this moment. I have nothing left, no allies, no tricks – I could not even gather up the scattered rosary beads from the pavement, for what good is a weapon for which my nemesis is surely prepared? And yet another blow awaits me as I enter the house... The street urchin who led us to Camden House lies limply on the lower stairs, pinched face white with terror, too-thin neck at a horrifying angle. Poor child! Did he know that he was leading Watson and I into a trap? Just how many of my contacts has Moriarty turned into his own thralls, unbeknown to me?

My insides sear with white-hot rage as I kneel beside the frail corpse, gently closing those staring eyes with a hand that scorns to tremble, my own eyes burning but tearless. Rest in peace, dear boy – you, at least, have nothing more to fear... and you _shall_ be avenged.

* * *

"My dear Holmes, how good of you to join us. Do come in."

The sitting room door swings open as I approach, revealing a still more chilling scene: Watson sits bound to his armchair before the fire, Colonel Moran pointing my friend's service revolver straight at his head. Watson's eyes gleam with helpless fury, only sparing me the merest sideways glance, and little wonder... Moriarty stands before the bow window, the curtains reopened, bared fangs glinting in the light of the leaping flames and effortlessly holding a near-fainting Mrs. Hudson before him by the throat.

"Your quarrel is with me, Moriarty, not with these two," I begin, voice decidedly less steady than I had hoped. "Terribly bad form, old man."

"You disappoint me, Holmes," the dry voice tuts, sounding merely amused at my feeble attempt at provocation. "I had thought we were long past arguing over collateral damage."

"Like the pawn you sacrificed below?" I answer through gritted teeth.

"Your guttersnipe served its purpose." The thin mouth curves cruelly. "You thought I could not foresee what measures you might take, rather than face me a third time?" And I suddenly know the truth before Moriarty can even speak the words: "I have been resting daily in _your_ attic, Holmes, since I returned to London."

"Well, now that you have my undivided attention once more," I smile pleasantly, willing my lips not to tremble at the dreadful mental image of the Count hovering over me as I slept, night after night... "what shall you do with it?"

"Why, hold it captive, of course..." Moriarty's hold tightens perceptibly on Mrs. Hudson's throat, exacting a weak moan from the half-conscious woman; "as I hold our little audience." I shudder as the Count reached up and strokes one extended claw down his captive's neck. "With this trifling game of ours almost played out, I have been at some pains to consider a suitable conclusion..."

"Moriarty..." I can almost hear the chair creak in protest over Watson's warning growl as he strains uselessly against his bonds. "If you harm so much as a hair on that blessed woman's head...!"

"How very predictable," the Count sighs. "Fear not, Doctor – I do not deny that the scent of her older blood has caused me considerable temptation these past weeks, aged and mellow as a fine brandy... but my time this evening is sadly limited, forcing me to grant this one, at least, a more merciful ending..."

"And what of Watson and I?" I interject hastily, as the claws of Moriarty's right hand begin to extend – _any_ distraction is better than none now!

"What, Holmes, no pleas for mercy from you? For shame!" Moriarty's demonic smirk broadens as my fists clench; he knows – how well he knows! – that I am equally aware of the futility of such things. "Well, I feel quite sure you both believe that simply killing either of you would only be a mercy – and do you know, Holmes, I must confess myself rather loath to kill such a uniquely gifted opponent in any case... not when leaving you alive would be so much more satisfying..."

My whole being is numb as my enemy's meaning suddenly becomes clear, barely hearing the next gleeful murmur: "What _would_ it do to you, I wonder... to be forced to watch your dearest friend become the very thing you abhor the most..."

I cannot breathe, cannot move, paralysed by the mere thought of watching the same _hunger_ growing in Watson's eyes that smoulders in Moriarty's... and, dear God, Mary! Whatever she might have promised her husband, could she truly act to save herself from him, or the life of their child?

I need not look at Watson's face to know that his thoughts tend the same way as mine, but before either of us can respond, a fresh cacophony of noise breaks out from the street: the clang of an approaching bell, undercut by the rumble and clatter of a horse-drawn fire engine. All of us are startled for a moment, gazes going as one to the window... and as Moriarty's head turns, Mrs. Hudson's hand emerges from the folds of her skirts, the tip of one finger gleaming silver, and presses it to the Count's hand.

Cursing myself for being taken in by the fainting act, I prepare to spring forward, with what intent I know not... but while Moriarty screeches in pain at the touch of the thimble, his pitiless grip only tightens further on Mrs. Hudson's neck, eyes blazing a warning that freezes me to the spot once more.

"_Fool crone!_ Did you think I would not sense even _that_ amount? Now, meet the same fate as the rest!" To my deepening horror, the Count's jaw suddenly unhinges itself, exactly like a serpent's, bared fangs ready to tear open the woman's throat. _Lord have mercy!_

I can only look on helplessly while Mrs. Hudson wails in terror... but as the creature leans in for the kill, her wailing only seems to grow ever louder, everyone else in that room cringing at the now air-shattering shriek. Moran and I clap our hands over ringing ears, to no avail, and I almost feel sorry for Moriarty, face contorted in a snarl of bewilderment and agony as the noise assaults his far more sensitive hearing.

Next moment, every piece of glass in the room explodes in a shower of fragments, including the panes in the bow window... and no one, not even Moriarty, has time to recover before the last thing anyone would expect leaps through the empty frames: a blast of water! The driving jet hits a stunned Moriarty right between the shoulder blades... and before our very eyes, almost in the drawing of a breath, the Count's whole body crumbles into dust.

Even in that last terrible moment, Moriarty's face has upon it a look of profoundest peace, such as I never could have imagined might rest there, and looking over at Watson and Moran, I know that they have seen it, too.

"Mr. Holmes? Doctor!" A call from the street below reminds me that all is still not well – Moran has come to his senses and is once more raising my friend's revolver to his head! Before I can shout a warning, however, Watson's foot lashes out at Moran's kneecap with an audible _crunch_, and the Colonel drops to the sodden carpet, clutching his leg and swearing fervently.

"Watson!" I hurry over and snatch up the revolver, then pluck the jack-knife from the mantelpiece to cut the doctor's ropes. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine, Holmes – just get me loose so I can help Mrs. Hudson!" God forgive me, I had not given a thought to the poor landlady, lying in a true faint this time where Moriarty's ashen remains ought to be... but there is nothing, no trace that the Count was ever even here...

With Moran handcuffed to the fender, we lift Mrs. Hudson to the sofa with the greatest care. "Watson, will she... be all right?" I whisper, staring into the pale face of the blessed woman who saved us, with what means I still cannot for the life of me comprehend!

"She'll be fine, Holmes," Watson murmurs, gripping my shoulder. "I'm so sorry, old fellow – she swore me to secrecy, I only found out by accident!"

I stare. "Found out what?!"

Watson grins ruefully, heading over to the window to answer Lestrade's now-frantic calls. "Shakespeare said it best, I believe: 'There are more things in heaven and earth...'"

I close my eyes, starting to laugh half-hysterically as the truth dawns on me. After all, if vampires exist, there is no reason why our beloved landlady couldn't possibly be a banshee...

* * *

A/N: Whew, thought I'd never get this one finished – and still one more post left for this thread!


	16. Bereaved

Holmes vs Dracula pt 6 - conclusion

(221B x 3)

_For every case of Holmes's there is always an aftermath: awkward moments and white lies to irate authorities – something of an anticlimax after all the excitement of the chase, and usually best left to a reader's imagination. Still, the public may someday be ready for the true story of the Final Problem..._

Lestrade gratefully sipped his chamomile tea, looking around the hastily straightened kitchen with new eyes. "Mrs. Hudson _will_ be all right, won't she, Doctor?"

"Perfectly, Inspector, although she did rather exhaust herself." Watson gave Holmes his cup with a pointed look, the detective mercifully choosing not to argue this time. "I'm sending her to her sister for a few weeks, it'll do her good to get away from London for a spell." As Holmes's face fell, he added, "Which reminds me, old fellow: pack your bag, I'm under strict instructions from Mary not to come home without you."

Lestrade nodded sagely as Holmes reddened. "Give the workmen time to set the place to rights, eh?" The Inspector smiled sheepishly at the pair. "My apologies, gentlemen, Scotland Yard'll pay for any repairs."

Holmes shook his head. "No need, Lestrade, the bill can go to Mycroft. Just make sure that _damned_ coffin gets taken down and burnt, will you?"

Watson gripped Holmes's shoulder sympathetically as the detective shuddered. "One thing I don't understand, though: why in heaven's name did Moriarty dissolve like that?"

Lestrade shrugged modestly. "Well, I damn near twisted my ankle on Mr. Holmes's broken rosary out there. Gave me one hell of a fright – what if you two were in the burning building? Then Mrs. Hudson screamed, so I told Captain Shaw to open the tank..."

Watson stared. "You put rosary beads in the water tank?!"

Lestrade nodded, grinning as his colleagues started to laugh. "Giving us a few hundred gallons of instant holy water!"

Holmes wiped his eyes, gasping for breath. "Bravo, Lestrade!"

"Indeed," Watson chuckled. "Inspector Lestrade, vampire slayer! It has a nice ring to it, I must say."

Lestrade shook his head firmly. "No more of the supernatural for me, thanks; I'll stick with the arrestable criminals from now on." He sighed. "I just hope no one asks me for a report!"

* * *

Watson looked Holmes over in deep concern as they drove to Kensington. His friend was mostly asleep, lulled by the motion, and looking more haggard than Watson had ever seen him after a case – if the detective wasn't careful, he could fall seriously ill.

"Have no fear, Watson," Holmes murmured, eyes still closed. "You may lay your pen to rest with this last case, I promise you..."

Watson opened his mouth to inquire, then closed it as his friend's breathing slowed and deepened, Holmes's head drooping onto the doctor's shoulder. Well, if Holmes was determined to retire so soon, Watson wasn't about to dissuade him – though he doubted his friend's decision would be a lasting one. Hmm, perhaps... He could hardly tell anyone what had really happened, after all...

* * *

"A _waterfall_?"

"I thought it was suitably dramatic."

"Hardly the word I'd choose!" Holmes snorted. "And how will you explain Moriarty, pray?"

"I thought I'd emphasise his intellectual side, make him a professor of some kind – mathematics, perhaps." Watson sighed at Holmes's dubious look. "Holmes, if you are determined to retire, permanently or otherwise, I'm happy to help. But you cannot simply disappear with no explanation to your public! Of course, if you can think of a better way to make an exit..."

Holmes spluttered indignantly, then rallied. "Well, what about you, eh? Wearing deep mourning for all those months?" Then he brightened. "No... it's _Mycroft_ who has to do that, isn't it? Black gloves, black cravat, armband..." A snicker escaped his lips. "I should start drawing up my will, insist he delivers a moving eulogy... and mind, Watson, I want plenty of tears from you and Mary at my graveside."

"Now, now, Holmes," Watson chuckled, "that's no way for a spirit to address the bereaved!"


	17. Bradstreet

(Blame this one on rereading 'Jekyll and Hyde'...)

* * *

"Sir," I said, feigning a calmness that I was far from feeling, "you speak riddles, but if you are truly here on Dr. Watson's behalf, I will hear your tale."

"It is well," my visitor replied, smiling sadly. "What follows, Inspector, I entrust to your discretion. Behold!"

He slid the needle into his vein and pressed down the plunger. A cry burst from his lips; he reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, gasping for breath. His figure thickened, features seeming to melt and alter – and the next moment, I leapt to my feet and back against the wall, arms raised in fruitless defence, my mind gripped with terror.

"Oh, God! Oh, God!" I screamed, over and over; for there before my eyes – pale, shaken, half fainting and groping before him – stood John Watson!

What he told me, I cannot bear to set on paper: a plan which, for all its daring brilliance, was no less horrifying in its execution. I will say only one thing, Lestrade, which, if you can bring yourself to believe it, will be more than enough. The man who entered my house that night was, by Watson's own confession, none other than the infamous vigilante, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, known in every corner of our empire as the murderer of Professor James Moriarty.

ARTHUR BRADSTREET


	18. Boat

"Ratty, please!" Toad raised clasped paws in supplication. "You and Mole are my only hope!"

"Only hope of escape, you mean!" Inspector Badger laid a heavy paw on Toad's shoulder. "You tell these gentlemen what you came to, and be quick about it!"

The Water Rat tutted, the Mole coming forward and helping their client to a chair. "_Another_ smash, Toad?"

"I wasn't going _that_ fast," Toad muttered. "If the brake hadn't failed..."

Badger snorted. "Since when have you ever even _looked_ at a brake lever, you wretched animal?"

Rat leant forward, inspecting Toad's battered overcoat keenly. "Or seen inside an engine, I'll wager... Very well, Toad, I accept your case – on condition," holding up a stern forefinger, "that you promise solemnly never to touch another motorcar!"

Toad's lip trembled piteously, but then he heaved a deep sigh. "If you will only intercede for me, dear Rat, it shall be as you say."

"Now, look here...!" Badger's protest was cut off by the Rat jumping up.

"That motorcar was delivered yesterday without mishap, it couldn't possibly have failed without assistance."

Mole gasped. "Oh, Ratty! You don't think...?"

Rat's eyes gleamed, slipping a pistol into his coat pocket. "That we haven't yet seen the last of the notorious Professor Weasel in these parts. Mole, be so good as to ready the boat..."


	19. Bear

I sit by my colleague's deathbed, transfixed with horror as he unfolds his story. Can such a monster, as he claims to have created, truly exist? Yet his eyes do not hold the fevered gleam that would persuade me to dismiss his tale as the ravings of delirium, and his knowledge of the sciences are at least equal to my own. When one eliminates the impossible...

His thin hand lifts from the blanket and clutches at mine. "Swear to me, Watson, that he shall not escape! Your friend Mr. Holmes must seek him out, ensure that he answers for his crimes!"

"As you have done for yours?" I frown as his face darkens. "It is not justice you seek, Victor, but vengeance, for crimes ultimately of your own doing."

"Have you no pity?" he cried. "No compassion? Will you suffer this daemon to live, knowing what horrors he may yet inflict?"

"Holmes would give you the same answer, Victor: this wretched creature is what you have made him. You will answer for that soon enough, I fear... and it may be that your death will grant him the peace he deserves." I shall not even relate this case to Holmes, knowing as I do that such a harrowing tale would be too terrible a burden for that great heart to bear.


	20. Boy

Mrs. Hudson's eyes were moist, little James Sherlock's arms tight around her neck. No crying, she told herself sternly – no sense in distressing the child needlessly, just as he was setting out for his new home. Sevenoaks was hardly John O'Groats; besides, the new Mrs. Watson had solemnly promised Mr. Holmes that her husband would remain a regular visitor to London, and Baker Street.

She kissed Jamie warmly on the cheek, and took him for a walk down the platform to see the engine.

Only once she and Mr. Holmes had waved the train out of sight and returned home did she allow herself the luxury of tears, carefully muffled by her apron. The rest of the day was spent in baking – although she did have rather a turn when she realised she'd unthinkingly begun to make the doctor's favourite ginger biscuits. She steeled herself to finish, setting aside the resulting army of gingerbread men for the Irregulars; the boys were almost as downhearted at the Watsons moving house as a certain mule-headed detective...

Some time after midnight, the restless footsteps on the floor above finally stumbled to a halt. She hastened upstairs to the sitting room and knelt beside the armchair, gathering its trembling occupant into her arms, stroking his hair as he wept.

"Oh, my boy... my dear boy..."


	21. Bradshaw

_Phweeet!_

"Stop! Police!" Pounding footsteps echoed along the Victoria Station platform, their quarry's lighter ones far out in front. Inspector Lestrade silently cursed the crowd, every civilian passenger seeming to gravitate in one direction: directly _into_ his and the constables' paths, the pickpocket's lead increasing with each collision... then suddenly disappearing altogether.

"_Damn_ it! Where'd he go?" Lestrade cast dignity aside and jumped onto a steamer trunk, ignoring the outraged reaction from its female owner, but could see no sign of their fugitive. "Fan out, search every train, cover every entrance – Scotland Yard, miss, so sorry – and that includes the _tracks_ this time, gentlemen!"

* * *

"Tickets... tickets... Thank you, miss." The conductor touched his hat, then moved out of the compartment doorway. "All yours, Inspector."

"Much obliged, Mr. Holmes," Hopkins nodded, grinning at the pale young woman. "And now, madam, you'd best show us which trunk your partner's hiding in before he runs out of air!"

* * *

"So the Underground Bandit had an accomplice..." Lestrade shook his head as the pair were marched off to the wagon – and he'd unknowingly been standing right over the man!

Holmes tried not to look smug. "No man can be in two places at once, even with such an intimate knowledge of London's railways." Nothing that a keen intellect couldn't solve... well, that and Watson's pocket Bradshaw...


	22. Bother

"Ohhh..." Watson groaned as he slowly came awake. Someone was... bathing his face? Such dreadful breath... "Ge' off, Toby, 'm all right..." Why was he lying on the... _floor_...

"Holmes!" The doctor sat up in a rush, wincing as his throbbing head protested, but saw to his horror that there was no one in the sitting room now but himself and Toby, the basset hound still nosing at him in obvious concern. "Good boy," he murmured, scratching the whining animal behind the ears. "Don't take on, we'll find them." At least Mrs. Hudson was away, thank God, one less person's safety to worry about. "Just let me get my bag..."

Watson's voice trailed off as Toby immediately darted across the room, seized the Gladstone's handle in his jaws, and started dragging it back to Watson, tail proudly wagging. "Well, I'm blessed! When did you learn to do that, old fellow?"

"Last week, actually." The doctor started at the tiny voice that piped up from his own armchair, mouth falling open as he turned to look. God in heaven... Had he been struck on the head harder than he'd thought?

"Sorry to rush the introductions like this, Doctor," the mouse said, moustache quivering nervously. "But it can't be helped. I'm awfully afraid that both our colleagues are in a spot of bother..."


	23. Bottle

Cold... why was it so cold... Holmes tried to turn his head, which proved a mistake, stomach lurching as the room began to spin. He could barely move, limbs tightly bound.

The detective groaned as memory returned. So _stupid_, he should have seen at first glance that those two 'clients' were more than they seemed... and Watson... dear God, his poor friend must be out of his mind with worry, assuming he was conscious yet!

Holmes shivered, the stone floor he lay on seeming to grow colder by the second; the coat they'd draped over his shoulders to conceal his bound hands as they escorted him out to the cab was long gone. If he didn't free himself soon... he couldn't even feel his fingers...

"Hi, none of that!" A stab of pain to the back of Holmes's hand made his eyes snap open again. What in the world...? "Just you stay awake, Mr. Holmes," a shrill little voice commanded from behind him, "and lie still till I've got you loose!"

Still too muzzy from the chloroform to argue, Holmes obeyed. In a few moments, his arms were free, and he was able to stiffly raise himself... and stared open-mouthed at the mouse in the Inverness perched on his ankle, sawing at the last ropes with a shard of broken bottle...


	24. Bag

"So you're telling me," Watson said to the mouse riding in his palm as they hurried downstairs, "that you and, ah, Basil have been living under 221B all this time?"

"Mostly," the mouse shrugged, who had introduced himself to a still-bemused Watson as Dr. Dawson. "It's not as though we've been a nuisance, now, is it?"

"You'd have to ask Mrs. Hudson about that," Watson smiled, which faded again almost immediately. "You said Basil went after Holmes?"

Dawson nodded. "We couldn't wait for you to come to, so Basil hitched a ride on the cab, leaving Toby and I to follow with you."

"But how are we to find them?" Watson frowned, bundling himself into coat and hat and grabbing a spare overcoat for Holmes. "Surely even Toby can't track a single cab across London!"

"On the contrary," Dawson smiled smugly as Watson opened the front door. "Toby! Seek, boy!"

Toby dashed out the door and down the steps, nose to the cobbles, sniffing in all directions. The two doctors lost no time in joining him, Watson barely managing to fasten the hound's leash to his collar before he was off, tail in the air, whining eagerly. Caught off balance, Watson could only do his best to keep up, wishing far too late that he'd thought to bring his medical bag...


	25. Bristling

Holmes got slowly to his feet, wrapping his coat and arms tight around himself in a vain attempt to keep warm. The little light from the cellar window was fading fast, though enough to discover that the door was extremely well-built, impassable even for a mouse. The window itself was far out of reach and too narrow for Holmes...

"Er... Master Mouse..."

"Basil," came the curt response from the floor.

"...Basil, my apologies. But if we can find a way to break that glass..."

_Crash! _

"Well, yes, that worked – but now you've only got one shoe... _Hiwhatthedevildoyouthinkyou'redoingputmedowndon'tyou**dare**nononononoooo!_"

A second boot went flying through the break, its screeching occupant clinging on for dear life, until the inevitably haphazard landing tipped the luckless Basil out into the dusty area. Muttering certain choice words, he picked himself up and peered back down at his anxious human colleague.

"Are you all right?"

Basil swallowed the answer that immediately came to mind – he'd had worse tumbles than that, after all. "You couldn't have thrown me a bit farther?" Those area steps would be a stiff climb, but they were the quickest route up to the pavement. "Never mind, I know where we are – I just have to find..." His voice trailed off as a growling silhouette suddenly appeared at the top of the steps, hackles bristling...


	26. Basil

Watson's heart sank as he watched Toby going back and forth over this latest intersection. Not that he wasn't grateful for a moment's rest... still, it would be dark soon, and the temperature was already dropping rapidly. Dawson had explained about the aniseed pod that Basil had put under the cab wheel, which had led the hound a long way, but now it seemed that the trail had somehow become confused.

"Could they have doubled back?" Dawson asked.

"Perhaps... Ah, there, he's off again!"

Toby had made up his mind at last, turning into the wider street, but as they went on, Watson grew increasingly uneasy, finally realising what was troubling him. "Toby, Dawson, stop, we have to go back!"

"What is it?"

"We're following the wrong trail. Look where we are!" Watson pointed to where Toby had been recently sniffing: along the centre of the street. "The scent was on the _left_ cab wheel, how could it suddenly switch to the right?"

"So unless they were driving on the wrong side..."

"Something else must have crossed their path and picked up the scent somehow! Come on, back to the corner!"

Casting around afresh at the crossroads, Toby soon dashed off in a new direction. Then Dawson gasped as a faint sound reached his ears: a frenzied snarling and barking...

"_Basil!_"


	27. Beast

"Basil!" Holmes's blood froze as the stray dog rushed down the area steps, straight for the hapless mouse. "Hi, you mangy cur, get away out of it! Go home!" The detective was horribly aware of how feeble he must sound from down here, he didn't even have anything left to throw! All at once, the growling grew muffled, as if the dog had just sunk its teeth into something soft... "_Basil!_"

There was a sudden scuttling noise, a snarl of outrage, and a small, brown shape leapt through the broken window, mere inches ahead of the stray's jaws. Holmes jumped forward, barely managing to catch his colleague in time. "Basil, thank God! How did you...?"

"Y-your sh-shoe," the mouse answered shakily from his cupped hands. "I ran back in, the dog latched onto the toe, so I jumped out again while he was busy chewing." He gave the detective an apologetic look. "Bit of a lost cause now, I'm afraid."

"Never mind that," Holmes said earnestly, extending a finger to help the trembling animal to sit up. "There, just rest now. We can't do anything more until that damn mongrel gives up, anyhow – it's only a mercy he didn't follow after you!"

"Well, fortunately, not even a terrier's that stupid," Basil smiled grimly, glaring daggers up at the furiously yelping beast.


	28. Baying

Watson halted, frowning. "Dawson, what's the matter?"

"Can't you hear the dog?" The mouse's face was deathly pale.

Watson strained his ears, noticing that Toby was doing the same, hackles raised, teeth bared in a silent growl. Yes, now that his colleague mentioned it, he _could_ hear a faint, insistent barking up ahead.

"It's a terrier..." Dawson's whisper sent a chill down Watson's spine – a dog bred especially to hunt rats and mice...

Wordlessly, Watson unclipped Toby's lead, who raced on at top speed, while the exhausted human behind him did his utmost to keep him in sight.

* * *

Contrary to Holmes's expectations, the stray's yapping wasn't doing very much to help him stay awake, nor was Basil's choice of resting place: inside the detective's shirt collar. He'd tried pacing for a while to keep warm, until his stockinged foot had found a tiny stray fragment... of glass...

"Ngh!" Holmes grunted, head snapping back upright. "I don't suppose you brush those teeth at all?" he muttered sullenly, rubbing his neck.

"D'you think it's pleasant for me, biting a human?" Basil shot back sourly. "If I _liked_ the taste of soap, I'd live under a bathhouse!" Then the mouse's ears pricked in excitement, while the stray's flattened in alarm, at a very welcome sound, rapidly drawing closer: a basset hound's deep, angry baying...


	29. Beneficial

(Final GMD episode.)

Watson rushed down the area steps, almost tripping over the fleeing stray. "Good boy, Toby! Holmes! Basil! Are you down there?"

"Good to s-see you, W-Watson." The detective's voice was alarmingly faint.

"Are you hurt?"

"Not badly," a second, shrill voice answered, making Dawson sag with relief. "But he needs to get warm, soon!"

Watson gingerly removed the last shards from the window. "Holmes, I'm going to lower Toby down to you in your overcoat. Wrap up together, he'll keep you warm until I can get you out."

"Can I have my sh-shoes back f-first?"

* * *

"Really, Watson," Holmes grumbled from under a mountain of blankets. "Must you keep plaguing me with that thing every other minute?"

"_Five_ minutes, Holmes," Watson said sternly, holding the thermometer up to the light, relieved to see the detective back to his usual convalescent self. "But if you want me to find somewhere else to put it, by all means, keep grousing!"

Seeing the glint in his friend's eye, Holmes preserved a wary silence until lunchtime. No doubt Basil was faring better under Dawson's care...

* * *

"Frustrating, isn't it?"

Moriarty blinked in astonishment at the large rodent sitting at ease on his inkwell, apparently dressed for the opera.

Yellow eyes gleamed. "We seem to have a common enemy, Professor. Perhaps a temporary... alliance would be mutually beneficial..."


End file.
